Then the Captain Montalvo had swooped down and carried her away, as a hawk bears off a chicken under the very eyes of the hen-wife, while he--donkey that he was--could find no words in which to protest.

Next, thinking it his duty to back the sledge wherein Lysbeth rode, although it was driven by a Spaniard, he had lost ten florins on that event, which, being a thrifty young man, did not at all please him.

The rest of the fete he had spent hunting for Lysbeth, who mysteriously vanished with the Spaniard, an unentertaining and even an anxious pastime.

Then came the supper, when once more the Count swooped down on Lysbeth, leaving him to escort his Cousin Clara, whom he considered an old fool and disliked, and who, having spoilt his new jacket by spilling wine over it, ended by abusing his taste in dress.

Nor was that all--he had drunk a great deal more strong wine than was wise, for to this his head certified.